


Death by Water

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Ghost Sex, Grief, M/M, Sleep Deprivation, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-08-18 19:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: Perhaps he really had gone mad. But it didn’t seem likely. Rivette had never been a lucky man and madness would be an improvement on whatever this was.Javert has handed in his resignation but he still has unfinished business to complete. Happily for him, Rivette is on hand to help him contact Jean Valjean. (Rivette is less happy about the whole plan.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (Jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehane/gifts).

> Dearest Jay, this is not quite ghosts having their wicked way with Rivette, but hopefully it contains enough of the things you like to be relevant to your interests. I’ve followed the fanon convention of naming Javert’s negligent and exasperated superior after Gisquet. My apologies to the real-life Gisquet who, I am assured, would _never_.

It was all over. The barricades had risen and fallen. The long night passed and when dawn broke, Paris had lost her most devoted servant. The prefecture mourned briefly and then work recommenced, the great machine that powered the city grinding back into motion. And life resumed its normal course.

Until Rivette began to dream.

They were cold, sweating, smothering dreams that shackled him thrashing in sleep. He was hunted through a maze of the city’s back alleys, puddles spreading at his feet. Unseen boots pounded the stone behind him and he couldn’t bring himself to turn and look his pursuer in the eye. For two nights he woke, heart pounding, with the roar of rain echoing against stone in his ears. 

By the third night, the walls of the alley had stretched higher and squeezed in closer, their stones slick and shining in the moonlight. Worn down and furious, his nerves frayed to breaking point, Rivette whirled around to face an empty street. Muddy water was pooling at his boots, pumping up through cracks in the pavement and seeping through the walls. It rushed up around him, alive and ugly. Rivette’s throat and lungs were filling up, his lips forming voiceless, desperate words. 

Rivette jerked awake, his limbs aching. His throat was raw and his cheeks flushed. Asleep at his desk again? He really must put a stop to this.

He dared a glance around the room to see if anyone had caught him and his breath flooded out in miserable relief. Of course no one had noticed. There was no one left who cared.

The prefecture was in chaos. Whatever pretence of order had been held together in the aftermath of the uprising had fallen away. There were survivors to be chased up, families of dead guardsmen to be notified and a spate of petty crime that had sprung up in the aftermath of the uprising. Paris had not yet calmed herself and Rivette’s nerves were raw from lack of sleep. He sat at his desk, eyes fixed on a stack of papers, and tried not to think about the empty seat just a few feet away.

On the fourth day, Gisquet found his way to the building. He looked over the wreckage of discarded jackets, half-finished reports and worn-out sergeants gossiping with prisoners, then leaned against the doorframe with a heavy sigh.

“Say what you like about Javert,” he told Rivette, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He kept this rabble out of my hair.”

Gisquet had said a great deal about Javert over the years. Some of it to Rivette, some of it to anyone who’d listen in the wine shop after hours. But Javert had made himself indispensable, whether Gisquet liked it or not. And here was the final proof of it.

Gisquet peered at Rivette. “You were close to him, weren’t you?”

Rivette stiffened. “I don’t think anyone was close to him, exactly.”

Gisquet offered him a pitying look and waved a dismissive hand.

“No, of course not. Who could be with one like that? But you’re as close as he got to a second in command. You understood his methods, yes? How he kept this lot in line?”

“Well, not really,” Rivette began. His mind was fuzzy. What _was_ it about Javert? There was the commitment to discipline, of course, but Gisquet already knew that Javert ran a tighter ship than he had. And then there was the uniforms, the penalties for sloppiness, the physiognomy... 

There was a list of orders buried in the stack of papers on his desk. Something about shoes and something about chairs. Rivette glanced at his desk, but all he could see was Javert’s mouth, twisted with obvious despair. His eyes, filled up with an emotion he’d never have let another person see if he’d had his wits about him.

Gisquet was watching him intently, still waiting for an answer. Rivette made a helpless gesture.

“He just had one of those personalities, I think,” he said. “Made you want to follow him.”

The corner of Gisquet’s mouth twisted in a way that made Rivette certain he’d said something wrong. Then he clapped a hand on Rivette’s shoulder. 

“If you don’t mind my saying so, old man, you look like you need a proper night’s rest. I never did hold with Javert’s methods myself, effective as they may have been. Recipe for an early grave if you ask me.” Rivette must have reacted to that because Gisquet winced but didn’t lower his hand. “Soon as you’ve got your head in order, I’d appreciate any help you can give me. But in the meantime, why don’t you take the afternoon to, ah, gather your thoughts.”

Rivette stood, his heart sinking. Gisquet watched him, his expression unreadable, and took his hand again.

“It’s not unheard of, you know,” he said. 

“I know, sir,” Rivette said, uncertain what Gisquet was referring to. All of it, he supposed. A devoted policeman driven over the edge. The wreckage left in his wake. 

“Something about the heat,” Gisquet said awkwardly. “Brings it out in all of us every so often. And, you know, one forms a kind of bond with a superior officer, whether one likes it or not.”

“Sir.” Rivette’s voice was trapped in his throat, a stifling heat rising in his chest. He cast his eyes desperately in the direction of the door.

Gisquet gave him a pitying look and then nodded. “Come back as soon as you feel up to it, will you? I’m told this place would barely be in one piece without you.”

Rivette’s thoughts were churning and indistinct. A derisive laugh was bubbling up, inexplicably, in his throat. He choked it back, nodded and fled for the door.

Outside, the heat was still oppressive, but there was a trace of a breeze in the air. The pressure in his throat loosened, allowing him to take long breaths. His thoughts came more clearly and he wandered, uncertain what to do with himself. He was exhausted, but the past few nights had taught him that exhaustion was no guarantee of sleep. Gisquet had released him for the day, but somehow he still felt like a prisoner.

_Prisoner_. The word ground him to a halt and he looked up. This time he did laugh, but the laugh didn’t sound like his own. His feet had carried him to the Pont au Change.

Rivette swallowed, casting his eyes around. He was halfway across the bridge — too far over to back away, but it wouldn’t take long to get over it. He wouldn’t be stuck here for long.

Except, he realised with a grim amusement, he couldn’t bring himself to take another step. His legs, which had been all too happy to carry him to the place he least wanted to be, had turned sluggish. His whole body ached with a weight he hadn’t realised he was carrying.

He leaned heavily against the long, level parapet and peered over the side of the bridge. There were no answers in the quiet movement of the river. The distant sound of the people moving him fell away until there was nothing but the silence that comes after midnight. Only the crushing absence of hope and the certainty that the world would never be the same again.

Was that a figure just ahead of him? He could see the outline of a man, crouched up on the parapet. Rivette’s heart caught in his chest. He opened his mouth to shout, but a moment later, the wind shifted and the man was gone.

No matter, he thought. No use shouting that name anymore. Not now there’s no hope of an answer.

Rivette wrenched himself away from the edge of the bridge, breath coming in a flooding rush. He turned his back on the water, following the paths of the people on the road. The wounds left by the insurgency were already healing. Traders passed with carts full of goods as they did every day. Men and women went about their business. If it weren’t for the wreckage of wood and gunpowder still littering some of the back streets, a person might never guess what had taken place only a few short days before.

And here was Rivette, the only man left in Paris who didn’t manage to die with the rest of them or survive and move on. Javert had been efficient in his final hours. He’d tried, with his usual diligence, to tidy up the last of his earthly business before doing away with himself. But, as ever, there was one thing that hadn’t occurred to him.

He drew a shuddering breath and then straightened, irritated by his own self pity.

Gisquet was right about one thing. Rivette needed sleep. And if sleep wouldn’t come, then a rest would have to do. He made his way back to his rooming house, dazzled at each step by mockingly bright sunshine. A trick of his mind conjured up the sound of footsteps at his heels and he ignored them. He dismissed the echo of rushing water in his ears. He pushed away the memory of a man on the Pont au Change, his posture hunched and twisted beyond recognition by something that must have been grief.

In the privacy of his bedroom, he pulled off his boots and loosened his trousers before slumping backwards onto his bed. Shadows played tricks at the edges of his vision and something buzzed in some unreachable corner of his mind. He raised his hand to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. And when he lowered it, the room was dark.

Had he been asleep? His shirt was soaked through with sweat. And despite the heat of the day, the room was cold enough to raise the hairs on his forearms.

Rivette sat up, squinting into the darkness. His thoughts came sluggishly as he tried to gather his memories. He’d been at the prefecture. Or was it the hospital? Somewhere familiar but dangerous. The sort of place a condemned man might be found.

A gust of wind sent the blinds of his windows crashing shut and Rivette jumped. Shadows moved across his vision and his eyes were pulled, inexorably, to the foot of his bed.

Rivette’s stomach lurched at the sight. Through the darkness, he could make out a familiar shape. A man in a dark police uniform, his shoulders bent low, crouched on the edge of Rivette’s small bed. It was Javert, but it wasn’t Javert. Had Javert ever hunched like that? Rivette had never seen him look so uncertain or so afraid.

That wasn’t true. He’d seen it and perhaps he’d even known it for what it was. And he’d walked away anyway.

A part of Rivette wanted to crawl forward. It was all too late to try and comfort Javert, but he could try. He wanted to close the distance between them and press his palm to that curved back. Or perhaps, he thought with a dreamlike boldness, he might brush his lips against Javert’s exposed nape.

But before he could inch closer, he caught sight of Javert’s coat. It was darker than usual, heavy and thick with mud.

Rivette opened his mouth to speak but his lungs were empty. His voice was dead in his throat. As he watched Javert’s back, the aching fondness in his heart shifted and morphed into a frozen dread. He noted, for the first time, the unnatural twist in Javert’s spine and the seeping darkness soaking through his coat. 

And then Javert began to move. His shoulders loosened and his spine straightened until he’d reached his full height. And then, as Rivette watched with a horror he shouldn’t have felt, he turned to face Rivette. 

Rivette was frozen in place. He knew, with a certainty that horrified him, that whatever was left of Javert was far better unseen. But he was trapped, his mouth working silently and his lungs seizing up as Javert’s torso rotated unnaturally and his hand grabbed a sodden fistful of Rivette’s sheets. The room was murkier than the pit of the river and empty as the bleakest summer night and Javert had been gone for days. But here he was, a cold weight on Rivette’s bed, on his chest, in his _mind_.

Rivette’s eyes snapped open. He was at his desk, a pen clutched in his hand and his heart thumping.

Gisquet was looming over him, wearing an expression that was half exasperation and half sympathy.

“Didn’t I tell you to go home and get some sleep?”

“I did, sir.” 

Or at least, he thought he did. When exactly had Gisquet dismissed him? He remembered stumbling across the Pont au Change and the darkness of his bedroom and Gisquet’s expression of nameless pity. But the memories were running into one another and jumbling out of place. He stifled a yawn. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

Gisquet’s brows knitted together. He heaved a sigh.

“You’re no use to me in this state, Rivette. And between you and me, I need you to be useful. Not...” he waved a hand, vaguely indicating the whole of Rivette. “...whatever you’re being right now.”

Rivette shifted in his seat, trying to decide whether he was offended or grateful or somehow sympathetic. After a blank-minded moment of listening to the hum in the back of his mind, he concluded that he was tired.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, because there wasn’t much else to say. He raised a hand, realised his fingers were still clenched around the pen and then released it with a grimace. 

Looking down at his desk, he could see two words scrawled on the paper in front of him. A name, written in a shaking, erratic hand that Rivette did not recognise as his own. It was barely legible, but Rivette didn’t need to look hard to recognise the jagged curve of a J and a V. 

So that was why Javert was back. Rivette was almost offended.

“No,” he muttered firmly. And then clenched his jaw to stop himself from saying it again.

“I mean it, I want you to go home and get some rest.” Gisquet leaned in. “But, ah, before you go. You wouldn’t happen to know what Javert did with my stash of emergency cognac, would you?”

Rivette shuddered at the question. He vibrated like a bell struck by an unseen hand, his mind filled with a cold and unfamiliar triumph.

“Rivette?” Gisquet peered at him.

“Gone,” was all Rivette could manage. Javert had done away with all of it years ago, the stashes of wine, the bribes, the contraband. Rivette stood shakily, watching as Gisquet’s expression shifted from pity into something more wary.

“Never mind. I should have known.” Gisquet’s smile was faltering and his eyes darted across the room, as if in search of help. But why would he need help? Everything was perfectly ordinary. There was a space inside Rivette’s chest that was filling up with a terrifying certainty.

“Should have known that Javert wouldn’t tolerate your nasty little habits?” Rivette’s voice rose. Around the room, heads were turning and eyebrows raising. His hand had curled into a fist. “That he’d raise this place’s standards? Turn it into a place a man might be proud to serve?”

Gisquet’s eyes widened and his cheeks turned a sickly pink. Rivette’s pulse was racing. Was that what he’d planned on saying? It seemed unnecessarily harsh, but the words were filling him up, demanding to be spoken.

“Of course it’ll all come flooding back now. The corruption, the laziness. But he was right. This work can be done honestly, and he proved it.”

Rivette snapped his mouth shut, appalled by his own words. The hairs on his neck were standing on end. He glanced down at the scrawled name in his ledger and a wave of nausea ran through him. When he looked up again, he wondered what Gisquet saw. The defiance of his words or the sick helplessness that was swallowing him up?

“That’s enough, I think,” Gisquet said finally, his tone firm but not unkind. He heaved a sigh. Rivette’s madness was an inconvenience he most likely hadn’t prepared himself for.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rivette said. Was he sorry? It had never seemed to matter in the past. So he said it again. Gisquet silenced him with a wave of a hand.

“You’re dismissed. Get yourself in order, get plenty of sleep and don’t come back until you can conduct yourself appropriately. How’s that for discipline?”

Rivette nodded, not trusting his voice. He stood mechanically, ignoring the heads that had twisted around to watch him, and left.

It wasn’t until he was halfway down the road that he realised his fist was clenched. And it wasn’t until he felt composed enough to unclench it that he found the crumpled sheet of paper with the name scrawled over it. The sight of it turned his stomach.

He strode to the parapet on the Pont-au-Change, heartsick and furious and wide awake. He balled up the paper and looked out across the river, his eye fixed on the horizon.

“Ask me for anything else,” he said out loud, too exhausted to feel like a fool. “Any other thing. Just say the word. I owe it to you, after all.”

An image jolted through him in response, clear enough to knock him off balance: A pair of scarred wrists, offered willingly. The iron cuffs in Rivette’s hands. And Javert’s eyes, darker than the Seine and unlike anything Rivette had ever seen.

It had been a hard night for everyone. The best officers miss the occasional clue. Rivette’s vision blurred and he scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. He leaned heavily against the low wall, exhausted.

In a way, he thought bitterly, it made a terrible kind of sense. What else had Javert ever wanted, after all?

He stared out over the edge of the bridge. Beneath him, the water ran in vicious whorls over centuries of rotting bodies. The city was still moving around him, but somewhere in the past few days, Rivette had been swallowed up by choking weeds and dark waters. He took a deep breath.

“Last chance to change your mind, then. You’re sure you don’t want me to slit Gisquet’s throat for you?”

A dark rumbling ripple in the water below him that might almost have been a chuckle. That was about right. Javert was terrifying when he wasn’t getting his own way, but he was a pussycat if you gave him what he wanted. Rivette sighed fondly and allowed his grip on reality to loosen a fraction more.

“All right then, sir. What’s the plan?”


	2. Chapter 2

Rivette woke, gasping for air in an unfamiliar room. It was cramped and dark with bare walls and a stripped-down bed. A small desk and chair stood empty against the walls. In the corner, the door was half open, its splintered frame a telltale sign of forced entry. 

A fading light filtered through the cracks in the blinds. Evening, then, Rivette supposed. How many hours had it been since he’d stalked across the Pont au Change?

This could have been any bedroom in any rooming house in Paris. Wherever it was, Rivette had never set foot inside it before. But he knew, with a certainty that was more than a gut instinct, whose room it was and why it was empty. He also knew he must be here for a reason. Javert always had a reason.

In this case, it was far from obvious. Rivette cast about the empty room for inspiration, but nothing caught his attention. The bed’s bare mattress looked thin and there was nothing on the shelves. Whatever had been kept in this room was long gone.

“I think we might be too late,” Rivette said out loud. Why not? There was no one to hear him. It was all too clear that no one had given the room a second thought since it had been cleared out. Probably hadn’t given it much thought when it was occupied either. 

Looking around, he tried to imagine what it might have looked like, not so long ago. His mind supplied a flurry of memories: Clean, pressed blankets on the bed; a clock with a polished pendulum; a stack of papers on the desk; a bowl of cool, clear water and a bar of soap.

Strange, to have someone else’s memories mingle with his own. But he was getting used to the disorientating rush of Javert’s thoughts in his mind. There was something almost pleasant in the process. He could sink into it, let the little indignities and aching loneliness of daily life fall away. If he let go entirely, perhaps Javert could take over, the way he must be doing when Rivette blacked out. 

It was a disturbingly appealing idea, but not such a surprising one. Javert had always had a firmer grasp of what he wanted than Rivette did. And Rivette had never objected to a simple set of orders.

Now, though, he had a little more presence of mind. The memory of the soap brought a rush of sensation along with it. A sweet smell and the gentle lapping of water and lather against smooth skin. The weight of a body resting on those clean sheets — a body that had been warm and heavy and alive. 

Rivette sighed heavily, almost unconsciously, as he moved to the bed. He stretched out on the bare mattress, half fancying that there might still be some lingering scent of Javert clinging to it. He drifted, his mind still conscious but pleasantly distant.

He ran a hand over his chest, conjuring up the sensation of drawing Javert’s fingers through the faint dusting of hair that had covered Javert’s chest. It was a curious experience, both the memory of the touch and the worldless pressure in Rivette’s mind. For days he’d been pushed and pulled by the force, a captive of its whim. Now, though, Javert seemed more pliable, willing to give as well as take. Rivette ran his hand lower and an answering feeling blossomed, almost shyly, in response.

And there it was. The reason.

There was a name he’d been trying to ignore, but here it was again rising in his throat like gorge. Rivette pushed the thought away, concentrating on the warm, borrowed memories: The satisfying sting of sweat after a long day’s work, the welcome silence of a room that was only his. And a name that pulled him up short.

“Listen. Think about him if you must. But leave me out of it, will you?”

No reply. Only the pulsing reminder of that name, that name, that name he never wanted to hear or see again. Rivette threw an arm over his eyes and did his best to feel instead of think despite the roiling sensation at the pit of his stomach.

He must have done this a thousand times. But somehow this was like nothing he’d ever felt before. The body was his own but it was also a memory. He could feel the blood that had pulsed through Javert’s veins, a chest that rose and fell with every indrawn breath, muscles still taut after a long day and a hand that moved to close around the thick length that ached between Javert’s legs.

“This all right, sir?” he murmured, voice rough with a fondness that he’d always known would get him in trouble someday.

A lacerating brightness tore through his mind, catching him off-guard before his hand could finish its journey. Rivette gasped, rolling onto his side and squeezed his eyes closed. He lay there, knees curling upwards and panting, his chest and throat hot with a furious shame that might have been his but could just as easily have been Javert’s.

“Point taken,” he muttered between gulps of breath. “Sorry.”

There was no physical evidence of what had happened — no blood or scars or even physical pain. But his head throbbed as though a wild beast had clawed at the inside of it. Shame and disappointment settled in his stomach and he pressed his face into the mattress.

“There’s such a thing as letting a man down gently, you know.”

The rumbling aftershock in his mind was easy enough to interpret: Not an apology but as close as Javert came. Perhaps that was fair. Rivette still wasn’t sure whether he’d just violated Javert’s privacy or Javert had been violating his for days now.

“Can’t be easy, can it? Being stuck in someone else’s head.” Rivette looked around the sad little empty room. Small and chilly as it was, it must have meant a great deal to a man so fiercely independent. “But if you don’t mind my saying, you aren’t exactly an easy guest to accommodate.”

The air around him shifted, prickling with energy like the sky before a thunderstorm, and Rivette sighed, sitting up.

“Well, if that’s not what you had in mind, then why did you drag me all the way out here?”

No response. Rivette swung his legs off the bed. Ordinarily, he’d have found somewhere to lick his wounds in private. But there was no such thing as privacy anymore. He took a deep breath, painfully aware of his stooped shoulders and the sweat that had soaked through his shirt. He was attractive enough, but he was a mess. And how could he have ever hoped to measure up to a man who’d lingered in Javert’s memory for over a decade?

Sitting at the edge of Javert’s old bed, he let his eyes drift across the room. It was dirtier than Javert would have tolerated — someone had tramped mud over the floorboards when they’d come in to empty the place out. Rivette leaned down to brush some gravel into a corner with the back of his hand. It wouldn’t help anything in the grand scheme of things, but wherever Javert was, perhaps he’d appreciate the gesture.

In the back of his mind, something lit up.

“Yes, you’re welcome,” Rivette grumbled. He crouched down, embarrassed by the way his whole body tingled at the renewed hum of approval from the presence in his mind. “You see? I’m good for something after all.”

The sensation increased, oddly insistent, as Rivette brushed more dirt away and he gave a surprised exhale. Yes, Javert preferred a clean environment, but this seemed like an overreaction to a bit of tidying up.

Maybe I am going mad after all, he thought, shaking his head in bewilderment. He placed a palm on a floorboard and startled when it creaked under his weight. It was loose.

Rivette jerked backwards but the sensation in his mind had shifted from a coaxing hum to a pressure urging him forward. He probed the edges of the board with his fingertips and felt it dip, the opposite end lifting. With a little more effort, he was able to slide the whole thing up and back.

There was very little in the space beneath the floorboard. Perhaps that shouldn’t have been a surprise. A man as scrupulously honest as Javert was unlikely to go in for hidden troves. But he’d had his secrets, whether he’d been able to admit them to himself or not. And here was the proof of it: A leather purse and a sheaf of papers bound with string. All Javert had left to the world. Rivette pulled it out gingerly, the air vibrating around him.

What had he expected? A child’s toy, perhaps, or a lock of hair from some long-forgotten sweetheart? But Javert had never been the sentimental type. And certainly by his last days, there had only been room for one other person in his life.

He untied the papers, which Javert had neatly stacked and wrapped and carefully hidden from his portress and the undertaker and whatever vultures came to pick through his few possessions after he was gone. A part of Rivette already knew what was in them. And sure enough, there was only one thing it could have been: A name, a few aliases, and a list of locations. Faverolles, Toulon, Digne...

Rivette folded the papers up and shoved them in his pocket. He opened up the purse, hoping he might find a ring or a brooch. Even a medal would do. But no. Nothing but a few coins.

What kind of a life had Javert lived, Rivette thought, a frustrated despair welling up in him, that this was all he thought was worth saving? And how could Rivette be envious of that man — that name that Javert had pursued to the end, that had followed Rivette through countless sleepless days now — under the circumstances?

How could he be jealous of this convict for stealing away Javert’s attention, he thought with a sudden bitterness. What would even remain of Javert without this man to fixate on?

“Fine,” he snapped. The still air stirred around him and Rivette hated the way his heart doubled its pace at the possibility of pleasing a dead man. “You want me to find him? Fine. I’ll bring you to him, for all the good it’ll do you.”

A shiver ran down his spine, as though a hand was running approvingly down his back. If he concentrated, he could imagine the figure kneeling behind him, wearing that quiet smile that Javert reserved for tactical victories. He squeezed his eyes closed.

“Don’t do that, will you,” he said, and the air around him crackled with static, setting his hair on edge. 

Perhaps he really had gone mad. But it didn’t seem likely. Rivette had never been a lucky man and madness would be an improvement on whatever this was. 

Rivette was startled awake by the sound of a horse and cart clattering past him. It was broad daylight and he winced. How could he have been dozing in the open streets?

What must he look like, during those widening gaps in his memory? A sleepwalker? Strange, but he felt more awake now than he had in the days before Javert… what? Made contact with him? Broke through?

A sharp gust of wind whipped around him. Anger? Impatience? He sighed.

“Honestly, sir. Even after I’ve got you moved on, I’ll be jumping at every stiff breeze for the rest of my life.”

The wind dropped to a sudden stillness.

“Sir?” Rivette looked around, feeling foolish. A cloud drifted over him and it was impossible to tell whether Javert was to blame for it or not.

Intentional or not, the gloom of the moment wasn’t lost on Rivette. Did Javert _want_ to move on? What would happen once he’d had his reunion with his favourite convict? And what would become of Rivette once Javert was finally gone? The prefecture was a lost cause. Rivette had well and truly burnt that bridge. Or else, Javert had burnt it for him. He still wasn’t entirely sure.

In any case, he wouldn’t get any answers from Javert. The air was crackling with an ominous static. It seemed advisable to change the subject.

“So where are we now?” Rivette asked. It looked like an ordinary enough street. A row of houses, each as ordinary and respectable as the last, looked silently down on him. Here, it seemed, was where they’d find their long-lost criminal.

Rivette scanned the row, trying to find some distinguishing feature.

He wasn’t inclined to start knocking on doors at random. Normally his uniform gave him some degree of authority, but he’d been sleeping in it for… how long now? With his sleep so off kilter, it was hard to even guess how long it could have been. Perhaps weeks had passed. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window and took a step backwards in alarm.

The man in the glass seemed haunted. His hair was unruly, his stubble out of control and he had a wild-eyed expression of a man who’d stepped outside his own reality.

No, Rivette thought. Can’t go banging on doors at random in this condition. This may not be the wealthiest area, but it was respectable. The way he looked, there was a good chance someone might be alarmed and send for the police. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

“A little help would be nice, sir,” he muttered, approaching the closest building. “Is this the one we’re looking for?”

A sharp wind whipped up around his ears. Not that one then. He moved one door along and felt another chill, like an icy slap. A little uncalled for, he thought, but he moved on. Number 7 looked much like the other houses in the row, but this time the air around him was warm and welcoming.

“There must have been an easier way to do that,” Rivette grumbled. “You’re sure this is the place?”

The air shifted, tightening around him. If Rivette closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Javert clasping his arms in encouragement or reassurance. Strange, to experience something Javert would never have given him in life. Perhaps they were growing closer.

_Don’t be an idiot_, he thought bitterly, remembering Javert’s sharp rebuke in the bedroom. Javert must have known what he was thinking but he was unusually tactful, the air stilling politely while Rivette collected himself. 

He looked over the house, still uncertain. Then he shrugged. They’d come all this way, and Javert seemed confident enough. He straightened his clothing as best he could manage and knocked.

The door opened after a moment and a skittering gust of wind whistled across the back of Rivette’s neck. Rivette sighed, pulled out his most reassuring smile and addressed the woman who was staring at him with an expression of barely disguised distaste.

“Sorry to interrupt you, madame. You may not believe this but I’m here on behalf of Inspector Javert of the Paris police force.” He paused, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for his dishevelled state. “You must understand, I’ve been undercover for some time now.”

The woman nodded warily. Evidently she hadn’t heard the news about Inspector Javert. That was good. But she wasn’t the man they were looking for. He looked her in the eye, trying to ignore the way his voice shook and the air trembled around him as he finally said the name out loud.

“I’m searching for Jean Valjean.”


	3. Chapter 3

The woman at the door shook her head, icily calm. “There’s no one by that name here, I’m afraid.” The wind whipped around both of them. There was a thud from somewhere inside the house as something heavy toppled over. The woman looked over her shoulder in alarm. She moved to shut the door, but Rivette covered her hand with his own.

“Please,” he said, shocked to hear his voice choked with a desperation he hadn’t realised he felt. “I don’t mean him any harm. I just need to find him.”

He hand stilled under his, but she shook her head again.

“Give me a moment,” Rivette closed his eyes, summoning up the image of the man he’d seen on the night of the barricades. “Is there a man who lives here? Old, I think, but I couldn’t say for sure. And strong. And quiet. Do you know who I mean?”

There was another word in his mind, one that seemed out of place, but he said it anyway.

“He might have… a daughter?”

The woman pursed her lips. “Who are you?”

“I told you, I was sent by Inspector Javert,” Rivette said. And then, sensing that wasn’t the answer she wanted, he added, “but it’s a personal matter. The police aren’t looking for him. If that’s what he’s afraid of, you can let him know that they’ll leave him alone from now on.”

“Except for you.”

“But as I say,” Rivette moistened his lips. “For me it’s a personal matter.”

She gave him a long, thoughtful look, her eyes sweeping over his dirty clothes, the bags under his eyes, and the hunch of his shoulders.

“You seem like the sort of man he’d be kind to,” she said at last. There was a hitch in her voice. “But you’re out of luck. Monsieur’s moved on. He packed a few things and left. Didn’t say where he was going or even leave word for his little girl.”

“And you have no idea where to find him?”

The woman threw up a hand. Her voice was trembling. “God forgive me, I’d tell you if I did. Monsieur is a good man but I can’t make head or tail of this decision.”

“Did he say why he had to leave?”

“Only that there was no other choice. He left enough money to cover my next six months, and then I don’t know what will become of any of us. He’ll break his daughter’s heart, behaving like this.”

_And she won’t be the only one_, Rivette thought. The wind was picking up around them. The woman shivered and Rivette offered a weak smile.

“Unseasonable weather for June, I know.”

“June?” She frowned at him and then shook her head. Behind him, Rivette heard the branches of a tree creaking in the wind. The woman seized his hand and pressed a coin into his palm. “Send word if you find him, yes?”

And with one more anxious glance over Rivette’s shoulder, she disappeared behind the heavy wooden door. 

The clouds were growing heavy and low in the sky, but there was no presence in the air, no hand to guide him. If Javert was somewhere nearby, he was brooding silently. And if he wasn’t… Rivette glanced upwards with some trepidation.

It wasn’t June, that much was obvious. He knew he’d lost track of time in the days after the barricade, but it was worse than he’d known. He was exhausted. He glanced up and down the unfamiliar streets. His feet must have carried him here, but he had no memory of the walk.

“Don’t suppose you have any suggestions, sir?”

Silence. Just like Javert to vanish just when Rivette needed him most.

Except that wasn’t like Javert at all. That was the worst part about this whole miserable business. No one was more devoted to his job than Javert, no one more dependable or less compromised by feeling. And if he hadn’t been there for Rivette personally, he would always be there for the police as an institution.

_Not anymore_, Rivette reminded himself fiercely. That was the worst part of this whole miserable affair: The world kept turning but Rivette was locked in the past.

And at least Javert had something to look forward to. Track down the convict, unburden himself and then move on to life everlasting. What would be left for Rivette once all this was over?

He sighed, feeling the weight of the coin in his palm. A hot meal, he decided. And not some distant hot meal in the future. Now. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

If he’d ever had any sense of direction, he’d left it back in June with the rest of his senses. So he walked aimlessly, feeling the weight of each step. How long had strangers been avoiding him in the streets, he wondered. Now that he’d seen his own reflection, he could hardly blame them, but it stung. Disreputable types had always been suspicious and fearful of his uniform. But this was different. People clutched their belongings a little tighter as he approached, eyeing him with a wary pity.

The first wine shop he found was half empty. A group of six or seven men sat at a table in a corner. One of them nudged his neighbour, who turned and, seeing Rivette, laughed harshly. A cloud of dust whipped around Rivette’s feet, and for a moment he had the wild sense that he was protected by an unseen ally.

Best not to count on it, though, he reminded himself. Avoiding the attention from the men, he found a table of his own. After a wait that felt longer than necessary, a heavy-set man was frowning down at him.

“And what can I do for you?”

_Same as you’d do for anyone else_, a voice snarled in Rivette’s head. He clamped down on it, forcing a smile.

“A stew, if you don’t mind. I can pay in advance.” He slid the coin across the table. The man picked it up, squinted at it and then nodded.

“Don’t cause any trouble,” he grunted, then disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Rivette alone at his table.

It took him a moment to realise he was shaking. And then another to realise why.

The warning shouldn’t have troubled him. He’d never been spoken to in such a way before and, provided he could find a hot bath soon, he never would be again. But the shame of the insult was no quick sting. It had burrowed down to the heart of him, unearthing some long-buried knowledge that _yes_ he was the type to cause trouble and _yes_ people knew it just from the looks of him. All his years of rigid obedience and meticulous care with his appearance could be stripped away from him as easily as... as…

He covered his mouth with his hand.

“Oh no, sir,” he murmured under his breath, at a loss for anything else to say. But that was enough to set his shoulders shaking, and he pressed his face into his palm.

“You know, I never thought of you that way,” he said, and the words echoed uselessly and mockingly in his own head. _Stupid_. As if Javert had ever been worried about Rivette’s approval. As if one man’s personal feelings mattered in a city that had already decided who was and wasn’t welcome.

There was no hope of fixing any of that right now and Javert didn’t want his pity. So instead he exhaled sharply into the warm darkness and let the steam from the kitchen drag him down.

Rivette jerked awake in a small room. Was it his apartment? The walls were bare and the door was off its hinges. Glancing down over the edge of the bed, he could see a gaping hole in the floor, the floorboard still loose as he’d left it.

Was this a dream? Did he even have an apartment of his own anymore?

There was water bubbling up through the floorboards, dark with silt from the bottom of the river. Bits of seaweed clung to the edges of the bed. All the wood in this room was damp and swollen and rotting away. There was nothing safe to hold on to.

The room was swimming, light bending and rippling. He blinked and shattered the tears that he’d been holding back, that he’d never even noticed, that never seemed to stop coming. And now they were welling up and he was drowning in salt water, choking and sobbing into Javert’s mattress.

In the centre of the room, Javert was facing away from him. He was facing the desk where he’d worked and eaten alone so many nights. The desk that someone would sell on or break down for firewood soon enough. And all around Rivette, the water was rising.

If he’d been awake, he would have said, _so what now, chief?_

Or he would have said, _he’s not worth it, sir._

Or maybe, if he was feeling brave, _why don’t we go somewhere, just us?_

But when he opened his mouth, his voice was swallowed by the night. 

Perhaps Javert heard him after all, though. Because after a moment, he turned slowly to face Rivette. And this time Rivette refused to look away. 

Rivette had seen Javert on that final day. Javert had been solemn as he’d handed over his list of recommendations. He’d done everything to keep the storm raging within him under wraps, obvious as it was despite his best efforts.

But this was different. Javert’s expression was wounded. There was a misery behind his eyes that was like nothing Rivette had ever seen.

Javert approached the bed slowly, as though weighed down by an immense force. When he lowered himself onto the bed, the waterlogged wool of his coat hit the mattress with a sickening wet slap. He looked Rivette over with a low hum of approval and then shifted closer. There was a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth, the kind that Rivette had only seen a few times in life. He raised a hand, reaching for Rivette’s cheek.

Rivette’s eyes followed Javert’s hand. It was ashen and bloated, streaked with mud and dripping dirty water. Not elegant, as Javert’s hands had been in life. Not powerful or cruel or practical. Rivette couldn’t imagine it gripping a cane or a pen or wielding a pair of cuffs. It looked like nothing of Javert’s. And when it was close enough to touch, he winced and shrunk backwards.

Javert froze.

_Oh no_.

Javert dropped his hand. The faintest tremble ran across his shoulders.

_Oh no, sir._

Rivette couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Javert’s shoulders were shaking, but the sorrow in his eyes was gone, replaced with a grim, bitter humour. The dark water spread, soaking like a stain through the bed. And the last thing Rivette heard before the water closed over his head was the harsh laughter of a condemned man.

Rivette drifted gradually into wakefulness, which was his first hint that something was amiss.

The room was still. Dappled light filtered through the window, its shadows shifting gently as a tree outside was rustled by the breeze. Rivette was curled on his side, his body clenched as if in memory of the previous night’s horrors. But his muscles were loose and his head clear. The blinding weight behind his eyes had somehow lifted.

He sat up, blinking. He wasn’t in his apartment. The room was almost totally empty, except for— his eyes drifted down to where the missing floorboard still split the floor open. He peered at it, brows knitted. Why did he…?

He’d been dreaming. And the missing floorboard had been in the dream. But why? The images from the previous night were fleeting, sliding just out of reach before he could grasp them. He gritted his teeth, kneeling down beside the bed. He slipped a hand in the gap under the floorboards, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t lose it.

_As if I haven’t already lost enough,_ he thought ruefully.

The thought pulled him up short and he looked around. Just where was he? Why did this room seem so familiar when it was obviously empty?

He checked under the loose floorboard. There was nothing there. But there _had_ been before. Something important. Rivette stood up, his legs tingling. It was as though he’d been asleep for weeks and was only just remembering to walk. He stumbled towards the door, suddenly unable to look at the strange room. It felt as though someone had hollowed it out.

He staggered into the street, where the morning sunlight was bright enough to burn away whatever memories were left of his dreams. Where was he? He knew where he _should_ have been: Behind his desk at the prefecture, ably assisting… not Javert. Javert was gone. Rivette turned a corner, sifting through memories that came sluggishly. Javert was gone and Gisquet was relying on him.

His foot slipped against a cobblestone and he staggered a few steps. A memory sparked, like flint dashing an ember to life. Gisquet’s expression of anger layered over a terrible pity.

No. No, Gisquet wasn’t relying on him. Perhaps he never would again. Rivette swallowed, picking up his pace, though it was beginning to seem he had nowhere to go.

Javert was gone and no one was relying on him. That was the truth of it. And somehow that absence of Javert had brought him here. Wherever “here” was. He blinked up into the light and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Rivette was no stranger to death. He’d seen men’s bodies stuck with daggers, ordinary men pierced with bullets. That night in June, he’d seen whole streets swallowed up by blood. None of this way new. Javert was a fanatic, and those were the ones most likely to get themselves killed.

But he hadn’t got himself killed. Rivette swallowed. In his pocket, his fingers closed around a folded document written in a hand he knew all too well. The history it outlined was all too familiar. It began in Faverolles and went rapidly downhill. 

And then he remembered.

He looked up, feeling his hands tremble. His eyes darted from the stone walls of the buildings around him up to the sky, where the sun hung bright and stark in a merciless blue sky.

“Sir?” He kept his voice low, but the tremor was there, even in that single syllable. “Are you still…?”

He looked around for help. But who was there to ask? His eyes landed, as if out of habit, on a passing guardsman. The man caught his eye and sneered. Rivette dropped his gaze hastily. 

It was no use. What could he have even said? _I have a dead friend who’s been following me around for days or weeks or Lord knows how long and I can’t tell if he’s sulking or if I’ve lost him entirely. I don’t suppose you could be of some assistance?_

He laughed, a laugh that was more of a shout. That was what he’d learned to do at work once Javert was out of earshot. Privilege of working for a difficult boss, he used to say. Took the sting out of Javert’s foul moods. But this time the laughter faltered. It was one thing when you could see the man bent over his desk or stalking across the prefecture floor. It had even been bearable when the winds had shifted or thunder crackled or things had started toppling over.

This was different. This silence wasn’t oppressive. It wasn’t even tangible. It felt like a memory being gradually erased.

“I swear to God, sir, if you’re doing this on purpose, I’ll—” Rivette broke off, exasperated and stung. He’d never been any good at talking back to Javert, not even when Javert couldn’t speak. Not even when he might be gone entirely.

Had he been there in the first place? Rivette tried to cast his mind over the sleepless labyrinth he’d been wandering through. He could barely remember how much of it was real and how much was a dream. He exhaled grimly, letting his feet carry him forwards.

_I don’t need the National Guard,_ he thought. _I need a priest._

There was a weight on his soul, after all. The knowledge of a task unfinished. Javert had depended on him and he’d failed. And now Javert was gone.

No, worse. The memories were creeping back now, etched in shades of iron grey. A hand that didn’t quite reach his cheek. The stink of dirty water. Javert had turned to him last night, and he’d recoiled. For all of his loyalty, he’d been afraid.

The unfolded papers were still in his hand: The one task Javert had never completed. What was he supposed to do when he found this man, this Jean Valjean who’d occupied so much of Javert’s attention? Bring him in for questioning? Punch him in the face?

But what was the point in hating the man now, Rivette thought, turning the pages over and over in his hand. Jean Valjean wasn’t keeping Javert from him. Javert had reached out to him for comfort, not Valjean. And what good had it done either of them?

His eyes scanned Valjean’s history. None of it was new to him — he’d watched Javert plot out Valjean’s route so many times he could trace it himself. Faverolles to Toulon to Digne to Montreuil, then back to Toulon and then on to Paris, but not before detouring to Montfermeil. It was a series of loops, this man’s life. He’d hurtle off in one direction and then be yanked backwards by the law or fate or his own inexplicable nature. 

Faverolles, Toulon, Digne, Montreuil. Rivette had never been near any of them, though Javert had occasionally threatened to dispatch him to Toulon when a raid went awry or he left a report unfiled.

“You wouldn’t last a day out there,” Javert used to scowl. “That place is a real test of a man — the guards as well as the criminals. Oh, it’s a prison all right, make no mistake about it.”

Rivette looked up at the empty sky, trying to imagine the burning southern sun. Perhaps he’d never served in the hulks, but he could imagine Javert there well enough. And he could imagine the poor bastards in his charge. Worn-out men ordered from one task to another whether they liked it or not, subject to the whims and punishments of a faceless authority. 

Well, didn’t that sound familiar? He chuckled. Yes, Javert was a prison guard right to the end. 

And here Rivette was, all alone in the blinding light of a new day. The authority was gone, leaving nothing but an aching guilt. He traced the route again. Faverolles, Toulon, Digne...

_I don’t need a priest,_ he realised. _I need a bishop._


	4. Chapter 4

The carriage shuddered to a halt, clattering over rocks and startling Rivette out of his doze.

The driver hauled himself down and yanked the door open. Rivette rose, pressing his few remaining coins into the man’s hand and stepping down into the street. Dawn was breaking and a greenfinch was chattering in a nearby treetop.

Rivette glanced up at the driver, who was fussing with his horse’s bridle. The man looked exhausted. But he must have sensed Rivette’s eyes on him because he glanced over his shoulder.

“I’ll find an inn to get some rest and water the old girl,” he gave the horse’s neck a friendly pat. “Come and find me if you want a ride back. Shouldn’t be difficult in a town this small.”

Rivette smiled weakly, wondering where he might find the money for the journey home. Planning had never been his strongest suit. He turned away from the carriage.

There were already a few signs of life about town. There was a dim light in the bakery, although the shop’s windows were still shuttered. A man shuffled out of his front door, still obviously half asleep. Rivette tried to imagine the place as it must have been over a decade ago.

Just as quiet, he decided. Places like this were always quiet. A dangerous vagabond roaming the streets was probably about as exciting as it got. He wandered in a light-headed daze, deafened by the morning silence.

“So, is this the place?” he murmured to himself. No response. He looked up anyway, half hoping to see the encouraging swing of a tavern sign or a gust of wind whisking a few fallen leaves up and across the street. Nothing. Wherever Javert was, he wasn’t in Digne.

Still, Rivette pressed on. This town was his last hope. If his hunch was wrong, he was stranded with nothing to pay his fare home. And if he was right?

Well, he’d still be stranded. But at least he’d have done one thing right by Javert, whether or not Javert was around to appreciate it.

And then… 

He exhaled, blinking rapidly. 

And then, with his last duty complete, there’d be nothing left for him to do. It was as simple as that. All his obligations safely tucked away. Javert would be gone — really truly gone — and that would be that. 

Strange, the knowledge that the moment was getting closer. To see the emptiness of it on the horizon. Rivette swallowed.

It didn’t matter. Not yet. For now there was still work to be done. 

The rising sun cast a warm light over the golden brown stones of the town’s buildings. A church with a curved spire stood at the edge of the town’s square, welcoming strangers home. This was like walking into a dream. It would be so easy to lie down in the middle of the street and let go at last. 

But there was only a little left to do, he reminded himself. He just had to find Jean Valjean and then it would all be over. Javert would be gone and the work would be done and Rivette could finally rest.

The house, when he found it, was smaller than he’d been expecting. Had a bishop really lived in such a pokey little place? Javert would have approved. The garden was small but beautifully wild, with long grass and sweet-smelling blossoms bright and beaded with dewdrops. Rivette brushed the back of his hand against a leaf, then pressed his cool, damp flesh to his forehead.

Was it July now? August? How many hours had he been awake? He leaned against the door frame, thinking about the honest warmth of it. He thought, hazily, of the rich grain that ran through a solid oak beam, of places he’d never been and endless days he didn’t remember. Long, hard days filled with dirt and sweat and the endless sea.

He must have knocked on the door, because when he opened his eyes he was face to face with a stranger he’d met before, though he never would have guessed it. A man with cropped white hair and a faded peasant’s smock. A dangerous criminal, or so someone had told Rivette at one time.

“Jean Valjean. You don’t look much like your posters.”

The man drew himself up, but his sharp frown quickly gave way to an expression of concern. Rivette wanted to reach out and trace his cheekbone, but he didn’t trust his strength.

“I must look like a real scoundrel,” he said.

“We don’t judge people by their looks in this house,” Valjean said finally, his voice rough with emotion and softer than Rivette was expecting.

Rivette smiled, suffused with a relief that made him feel as giddy and stupid as Javert had always suspected him of being. And then, at last, his body was merciful. Sleep swung him down and caught him up and everything was still.

Rivette was getting used to waking up in other men’s beds. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wind up with a reputation.

Jean Valjean’s bed was small and stiff, but it was piled high with mismatched blankets. The room itself was tiny. Apart from a pair of silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece and a few books on the bedside table, it appeared to be as empty as Javert’s hollowed-out apartment.

Valjean was beside the bed, head bent in prayer. When he noticed Rivette staring, he straightened in his seat.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Rivette said with a hollow smile. “He’s not here.”

Valjean’s lips twisted but he didn’t speak. So Rivette continued.

“I thought he might be. I did. I hoped that if I found you, he might—” he raised a hand then let it drop onto the bed. “Never mind, eh? Least now I’ve got my answer. Maybe I’ll get some rest and all.”

He twisted his head to look at the man who sat in his loose clothing, watching Rivette with an expression that was more sorrowful than watchful.

“Jean Valjean,” said Rivette. It was strange, to let himself speak the name he’d been so afraid of. The name Javert had been so obsessed with. He met Valjean’s eyes and said it again. “Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean. From Faverolles to Toulon to Digne to Montreuil, to Arras and then back to Toulon and then on to Montfermeil and Paris. And then back to Digne. Quite the journey, Jean Valjean. Jean Val-”

“That’s enough of that, please.” Valjean’s voice was firm but there was a tremor in the last word. He looked like a man facing a wounded dog that might still bite if he got too close.

“We open our doors to strangers in this house. We take them in when they need us. So whatever you may need, if you see it here, it’s yours.” Valjean spread his hands, and smiled mirthlessly. “But between you and me, I have almost nothing left to give.”

That was no trouble, Rivette thought, sitting up with some difficulty. There was no one left to take it.

“Inspector Javert was the one who sent me.” Rivette’s voice sounded distant, as though another man was speaking. “I doubt you have a good word for him and I don’t blame you. Don’t think he’d blame you either, for that matter. But he sent me to find you and I suppose I didn’t have so much on my plate because here I am.”

Valjean had gone pale as Rivette spoke, his shoulders drawn back. Strange, how the mention of one man could pull him upright, like a marionette yanked to attention. Rivette knew a little of how that felt.

“He’s dead, in case you didn’t know,” Rivette said, looking away so he wouldn’t have to see the relief seep through Valjean. “And I don’t want anything of yours. I came to find you for him and you’re here and he isn’t. So...” he shrugged. “I won’t be keeping you.”

He pushed the blanket off and swung his legs to the floor. He swayed a little on his feet. When he looked down, Jean Valjean’s eyes were turned upwards, the tips of his fingers pressed to his mouth.

“I think I did know,” Valjean said, a tremor running through his voice. He turned to look at Rivette. 

“That night, when you found me. He wasn’t himself.”

Rivette shuddered. The night was a dark blur, but he remembered the feel of Valjean’s wrists in his grip, the rumble of the carriage and the clash of iron horseshoes against wet stone. And he still remembered Javert’s eyes, fixed on something a thousand miles away. Of course Valjean had seen it too.

“He never came back,” Valjean said. His hand came up to cover his face. “God forgive me, I thought he must have had a change of heart. And instead—”

Rivette wanted to leave. This little room of Valjean’s was too dark, too empty. The lines under Valjean’s eyes were deeper than they should have been. If Rivette couldn’t get loose, he’d be dragged down into the depths of a deeper misery than the one he was already lost in.

But he knew the expression Valjean was wearing. He’d seen it once before and walked away. It had been an honest mistake, the first time. But now he had no such excuse.

“I think I saw it too,” he mumbled. It was the first time he’d admitted it to another person and the truth of it filled him with a lacerating shame. What kind of a man could look that much pain in the face and walk away?

Javert had paid the price for it and Rivette couldn’t imagine forgiving himself. But what about Valjean? He’d seen Javert just as clearly as Rivette had and he’d had his own suspicions. And Javert had still ended his life alone that night with nobody to stop him.

Perhaps neither of them was entitled to forgiveness, but Valjean didn’t deserve to be left alone with his guilt. It could do terrible things to a man.

Rivette reached down to brush a hand over the back of Valjean’s. Valjean shuddered at the touch, a crackle of electricity passing between them. A warm hum of connection that shuddered to life when Valjean’s eyes raised to meet Rivette’s.

Across the room, something wobbled and crashed to the ground. Rivette looked up to see one silver candlestick remaining on the mantelpiece. On the ground below, its brother lay toppled. Rivette looked back to where his hand covered Valjean’s, then up at Valjean’s wide eyes. He wondered when his heart had begun pounding.

Valjean straightened in his seat, “this is familiar,” he said, with a wry expression that would have looked entirely out of place on him less than an hour earlier.

Rivette looked at Valjean and tried to guess what he might be feeling. The fear of a guard in pursuit, he suspected. The anxious knowledge that Javert was closing in on him. Some criminals developed a kind of sixth sense, and this one always did seem to be one step ahead of the force. 

Valjean glanced over his shoulder, eyes on the fallen candle, and took in a slow breath. Somehow the shift in air pressure had changed him, sharpening his attention and giving him a nervous, appealing energy. Was it Javert’s presence that had changed him? Or was it Javert’s influence on Rivette, drawing his eyes to Valjean’s wrists, to the faded scars on his throat and the fullness of his mouth?

“Glad to have you with us, Sir,” Rivette muttered. A not-unpleasant shiver ran down his spine in response and Valjean gave him a curious look.

“Can you feel it? I should have known he wouldn’t pass up a chance like this one.” Rivette pressed his fingers to Valjean’s wrist, felt the rough edges of scars and the double-time beat of his pulse. And Javert felt it too. Javert, who was nudging at the edges of Rivette’s consciousness. Javert, who was awake and aware and ungrateful as the devil himself, but he was _there_ and for the time being that was enough. 

“You know why he’s here, don’t you?”

Jean Valjean was watching him, eyes darting from Rivette’s face to a space on the bare wall somewhere behind his ear to the ceiling to the empty shelves to the window. Rivette noticed for the first time the way his peasant’s smock fell open at the neck, revealing dark hair and a long-faded tan. Valjean’s hands were shaking. Rivette closed his hands around them and something inside him rang out like a struck bell.

It was a shame, he thought. Sad for Javert that this was the one thing he’d always wanted and never had. Sad for Rivette that he was so quick to oblige on his boss’s behalf. Valjean was studying him, eyes narrowed.

“So who are you? Are you Javert? Or are you the man who collapsed at my door a few hours ago?”

Rivette shrugged, blissful and thoughtless. He was both, wasn’t he? Loyal servant and ferocious guard dog and exhausted beyond words and filled with a devouring energy.

“Would it make a difference?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Valjean admitted. “I think… would you prefer it if I call you Javert?” 

The word was clumsy on his tongue. It was obvious he’d rarely said it out loud, never murmured it to himself for reassurance on a difficult night. He’d certainly never spat it out, equal parts ashamed and reverential, at the privacy of his bedroom. Rivette was surprised to feel a sting shiver through him.

“No need for names,” he said, brusquely. He tightened his grip on Valjean’s hand, reaching further forward to seize his wrist. Valjean’s eyes locked with his, widening. “You know what he’s here for, don’t you?”

“He always said he’d come for me and he’s a man of his word,” Valjean said. His voice was cracked and breaking apart. He smiled, without apparent pleasure or malice. “Don’t tell him, but I fear he’s too late.”

It was true. Wasn’t Jean Valjean supposed to be broad and powerful? _Stronger than an ox with a temper to match_, Javert had said once, admiring the sketch on the wanted poster with a satisfaction that pulled at something hungry and pained inside Rivette. The man before him was a shadow with a crumbling smile. He looked like a ghost himself.

Then Valjean sighed heavily and his arms went slack in Rivette’s hands.

“But I’m a man of my word myself, despite what he may have told you.” He looked up, his expression resolute as it hadn’t been before. “Did you hear me, Javert? Anything you want, just as I said.”

And that was all it took. Javert wanted it and Valjean permitted it, so Rivette moved. He lurched forward, half in the bed and half on top of Valjean. He covered Valjean’s mouth with his own and swallowed the soft, shocked sounds the man made. _A stranger_, Rivette thought, fisting a hand in Valjean’s rumbled shirt. _A stranger whose path I’ve traced over the decades. Whose history I know better than my own. A stranger I’ve watched and watched and watched and watched and_

Valjean broke away, panting. Rivette blinked, dazed by his own ferocity. Valjean looked dishevelled, but his eyes were wide, his lips reddened. For the first time since Rivette had arrived in Digne, Valjean looked alive. It was a startling sight.

“You knew he wanted that,” he accused, hearing the words echo in his head in Javert’s voice.

There was a sorrow in Valjean’s eyes that made Rivette suspect there was more to this decision than pure generosity. Guilt, he decided. Valjean had seen Javert that night and he’d ignored what was before his eyes. Rivette knew what the weight of that knowledge did to a man.

“I had some idea, perhaps,” Valjean dipped his head. “But he wanted more than that, I think.”

_He wanted to be rid of you. To exorcise you. To be able to carry on without being haunted by everything you represent._ The words were echoing in Rivette’s mind, too loud to ignore. 

Instead he said, “he wanted to live up to his own ideals. And he wanted the rest of us to meet his standards. A lot to expect, if you ask me.”

He shoved down the thought and tugged on Valjean’s shirt, toppling them both onto the hard bed. Valjean followed obligingly but held back, watching Rivette as he worked open the fastenings of his own trousers. If Rivette closed his eyes, he could picture Javert’s hands moving over his body, pulling out his cock and urging it to life. 

_Yes,_ he thought, remembering another bare room and another bare mattress. Javert may not have wanted the likes of Rivette’s hands on him then, but with Valjean stretched out beside him, fretful but willing, he’d tolerate an unwanted third party. _No offence taken, sir. I know the feeling._

He reached out blindly, Javert’s hand clumsy against Valjean’s face. Javert’s thumb tracing Valjean’s lower lip. Javert unaccustomed to gentleness but it was all Rivette could manage. The mattress was hard, but he was sinking into it and he realised all too late that he was speaking. Words were spilling out of him like _wretched_ and _unbelievable_ and _criminal_ and _impossible_ and _why_ and _how_ and _why_ and _why_ and _why_.

There was only one way to stop that flow of words. He pressed his mouth to Valjean’s and let his hands take over, shoving soft cotton out of the way to reveal a body he’d never known before that was somehow less powerful than he remembered. Javert was merciless even in this, finding the place where a decade-old lash mark still curved around Valjean’s hip. He followed its path and traced his hand even lower to where Valjean was half hard.

He closed his hand around Valjean’s cock, his heart racing. Valjean gasped, breathing a name that made both Javert and Rivette ache for different reasons entirely. And then there were firm hands on his shoulders, urging him back. Valjean’s hand had caught at his wrist and was pulling it up.

“Enough. Please. Open your eyes,” Valjean’s voice was gentle but firm.

Rivette turned his face into the pillow, not sure whether he or Javert was the one who wasn’t ready to put a stop to this. But Valjean was silent and patient and Javert had always respected those qualities. He blinked up at Valjean.

“I don’t suppose, in all of this, anyone’s thought to ask what you want?”

_It doesn’t matter what I want._

Rivette swallowed the first miserable truth that came to mind. The second was no better, but he said it anyway.

“I want him to stay. And he wants to be here, so here we are.”

Valjean frowned, but there was nothing more pleasant Rivette could tell him, so he shrugged and held his ground.

“He didn’t want to be here that night. He wanted to be nowhere.” Valjean said at last. He leaned back on the bed, casting his eyes to the cracked ceiling. There was a strange, poignant note in his voice that got Rivette’s attention. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked closely at Valjean, who was looking at nothing.

“But he came back,” Rivette said, insistent. “He got his wish, but it didn’t stick. He’s been following me around for weeks.”

Valjean’s mouth was a broken line.

“How unfair. To be nowhere and to have it solve none of your problems.”

A crackle of static ran across Rivette’s back. A spark leapt from his finger to jolt Valjean, who gasped a little. Javert had always hated to be pitied.

Valjean’s eyes were on Rivette now, who shrunk a little under the scrutiny.

“He was a difficult man to work for, I should think.”

Rivette nodded. “Still is,” he said.

It was worth it, though. He’d rather have Javert storming through the prefecture, barking orders and terrorising half the city than Gisquet’s jaundiced eye keeping watch over things. But his eyes drifted down to where Valjean’s shirt was still pushed up to reveal a vicious map of scars. He pursed his lips, suddenly ashamed of his loyalty. The room chilled a little around them and Rivette couldn’t help but wonder if Javert was a little chastened himself.

“He left orders,” he offered.

“Orders.”

“Well, recommendations. A list of suggestions to improve the conditions in the hulks. Things like—” he searched his mind for an example. “Shoes. The prisoners shouldn’t have to take their shoes off after an interrogation. Because they catch colds.”

Valjean looked at him for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. “Well, that’s a start,” he said at last.

Rivette pressed a hand to his eyes. Outside, the sky was turning a hopeless grey. Valjean was still watching him.

“And will his recommendations be put into place?”

Rivette thought about the sheet of paper on his desk. About Gisquet, indolent and sour-faced at his old desk. About the chaos that the prefecture had descended into. The air crackled around him in frustration.

“Maybe,” he lied. “I suppose I’d have to go back to Paris. Speak to the Prefect.”

Valjean pressed a chaste hand to his shoulder. There was an interest sharpening behind his eyes. “Perhaps that’s how you give him peace. You carry his best intentions forward and you give yourself reason to carry on.”

“And perhaps we can do better than the shoes,” Rivette said carefully, his eyes on Valjean. “Like you say, it’s a start, but there’s more work to do. Perhaps if I had some help...”

“There’s always more work to be done,” Valjean agreed. His hand tightened on Rivette’s shoulder. Outside, the clouds were dissipating. The endless blue sky they left behind wasn’t empty at all.

Rivette woke one more time before Javert left them, rising to the surface of a stormy dream that could not quite pull him under.

He was still in Valjean’s bed, but now Valjean was lying beside him, lost in a fitful sleep of his own. His mouth was slack and his breath was coming in shallow pants. He rolled a little onto his side and his hardness shifted against Rivette’s thigh.

_Oh_.

Where was that pressure? That familiar sensation of a guiding hand? Javert’s desires urging him on? There was nothing, Rivette realised with a giddy shock. Nothing to hold on to.

No, not nothing, he realised, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. There was the warmth of Jean Valjean’s skin against his. There was the heady scent of their sweat and the solid, reassuring mass of him. There was his hair, cropped short but a bright shock of silver in the darkness, and when he opened his eyes there would be the warmth of that fathomless gaze. There was a small room, which could be filled with a dozen useful things and a dozen better memories. And in the distance there was the sun, waiting to rise.

Perhaps not everything was Javert’s business. Rivette leaned forward to brush his lips against Valjean’s forehead. Valjean hummed sleepily and pressed closer. Rivette reached down to tease at Valjean’s hardness, swiping a thumb over the slick head of his cock. This was enough: The taste of sweat on his lips and the sleepy closeness of another body. Not everything had to be an errand to be endured or a compromise to be grateful for. 

“This all right?” he murmured, and received a muffled affirmative. Good, he thought. And it _was_ good.

And then Valjean’s hand closed around his wrist. He pressed closer and smiled, a slow, amused smile that Rivette had never seen on Valjean.

“And what about this?”

Rivette froze, looking down at Valjean’s hand. Javert was there all right. But why would he…?

It was too humiliating to even consider. Rivette tried to scoot backwards in the bed, but Valjean was strong and help him in place. His voice softened until it was somewhere between placating and pleading.

“He wants it, Rivette. I— we both want to.”

It was outrageous. As if Jean Valjean could speak for Javert. As if he had any _idea_ what Javert might want or need. 

But he did. Javert had wormed his way into Valjean’s ear. And just like that, Rivette’s one purpose — the one thing that had made him _useful_ — was gone.

But Valjean’s grip on his wrist hadn’t loosened. Rivette may not be useful any more, but Javert’s gaze was still fixed on him through Valjean’s eyes. Rivette shivered at the memory of a dripping hand, filthy with river sludge and weeds, that came close to his cheek. He may have been a fool, but he wasn’t going to turn down a second chance.

This time when Valjean’s free hand reached for his face, he turned to press reverent lips to a palm roughened by decades of suffering. A moment later, that same hand was gripping the back of his neck, pulling him into a devouring kiss.

Valjean’s hands were gentle but thorough, undressing him with an efficiency that Rivette recognised from a hundred late-night inspections. He was quiet in the darkness, but when Rivette pressed closer he saw Valjean’s lips moving, even this quietest of men unable to hold back Javert’s litany. Rivette allowed himself to be pushed backwards onto the bed, his bare skin cooled by the rough sheets. Valjean ran an admiring hand down his flank.

“You were always better than he gave you credit for,” Valjean said. His fingers found a nipple and then, eyes turning sly and deliberate, he gave it a sharp twist. Rivette yelped as Valjean’s finger and thumb soothed the sore skin. “And he always wanted to try that,” Valjean added apologetically.

It was unfair, Rivette thought, to put him through this. To give him this taste of the man Javert could have been if he’d only let himself. To let Javert use Valjean the way Valjean refused to let him use Rivette. To—

Valjean reached lower, watching Rivette with Javert’s eyes as he found Rivette’s cock. Rivette leaned forward to kiss him. Both of them. Valjean’s hand was clumsy, somehow applying too much and too little pressure at once. _Neither of them know any better_, Rivette realised. But the touch was achingly sweet and Rivette thrust upwards, his mind filled with dark wool and a sharp tongue and all that wasted potential. 

He held on tighter, his other hand coming down to find where Javert was hard too. Javert, too rough with his hands and gasping into his mouth and too overwhelmed to even speak now. And no doubt some of that was the triumph of having found his criminal at last and put him to use. Some part of Javert must have been lost in the wonder of Valjean’s flesh and his mind and his willingness to acquiesce to even this strange invasion. But his hand was gripping Rivette, rough and certain, lingering on the knife edge between indulgence and cruelty, and it was more than Rivette could have ever hoped for.

He wanted to hold out for as long as he could. Wanted to make it last forever, because a part of him must have known what it would mean when it ended. But in the end, he found himself disappointing as ever.

“Sorry, sir,” he gasped as Javert wrenched him to completion, working him with methodical strokes that could only have been Javert.

“Idiot,” Valjean huffed fondly in his ear, and he sounded so unlike Valjean that Rivette choked on a laugh and a sob. Then he rolled on to his side, because Javert had taught him never to leave a job unfinished, and bent to put his mouth to work.

Rivette had done this once or twice before. Not enough to really get the knack of it, but he had the feeling Javert wouldn’t have enough experience to know what he was missing. Sure enough, judging by the shuddering groan that echoed through the room, he was more than skilful enough to impress two lonely old men.

He swirled his tongue over the head, intending to tease. But he was met with a sharp upward thrust and a muffled, “sorry!” When he glanced up, he saw the Valjean had thrown an arm over his mouth, his cheeks pink in the soft light that was creeping into the bedroom.

Rivette smiled, lowered his eyes and tried to swallow as much as he could at once, closing a hand around the shaft that was now a painful-looking red. A hand came up to stroke through his hair and Rivette squeezed his watering eyes closed.

Javert came, gasping harshly and dragging Valjean along with him. Or perhaps it was the other way around. When Rivette crawled back up to where Valjean was slumped on the pillow, one of them kissed him. Or perhaps it was both of them. He couldn’t tell. He was warm and sleepy, letting his eyes drift blissfully closed as Valjean’s arms wrapped around him and Javert tightened his hold.

The three of them slept tangled together and Rivette dreamed of the Seine. 

In his dream, he followed the Seine’s path, the waves of it thundering and crashing through the chaos of Paris. It rushed past cruel streets and busy people, past nursemaids singing to their young charges and handsome young men with sharp-edged smiles who would grow old and fat and die if they were lucky. 

The river widened, slowing as it drifted away from the city. It glistened in the light of a new day, still heavy with mud and weeds but streaked with silver and alive with salmon and carp. It slid over rough stones that would someday be polished into smooth pebbles. It passed abbeys and dipped under bridges as it clamoured towards Normandy and the coast. It broadened, became something else.

And it continued.


End file.
